


If an Agent Asks for a Favour...

by KatsatheGraceling



Series: Long Bondlock Prompt Fills [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: BAMF James Bond, BAMF John, Bondlock, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Saint, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Q is a Holmes, gay ships are yay ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Mycroft's minions alert him that John is stealthily entering MI6. John and James covered each other's asses once and have been friends ever since. Mycroft calls upon his brother Q to find out what they're up to. Bondlock crossover. - Sunny</p><p>Or in which John is a BAMF and Mycroft likes to snoop (more than usual).<br/>Established Johnlock and eventual 00Q.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started with Bond asking for a favour.

Double-O agents usually made it a point to stay away from Q-Branch, because the boffins tended to get antsy when there was a person with a licence to kill in the room. Unless, of course, you were 006 or 007, who lived to see the little techies cower in fear.

When Boothroyd was in charge, it was honestly too easy to pick on the Minions. Major Boothroyd was a genius, he wouldn't have been promoted to Quartermaster if he wasn't, but he was blind as a bat when it came to how scared the minions were of double-o agents.

Then, when MI6 got a new Quartermaster – who had made his files so untraceable that no one could seem to find his real name or age – Bond and Alec had a lot more trouble sneaking into Q-Branch.

The first time Bond and Alec tried to mess with the techies of Q-Branch had been after they had gotten back from a particularly taxing assignment in northern Russia. The pair had been stuck in Medical for the majority of the morning, dealing with their complaints.

_Yes, he would take better care of himself._

_Of course, he would try harder not to get shot._

_No, it wasn't his fault that the bomb had detonated prematurely._

Then, M had demanded that they give a report of the mission, and had told them to stay in Medical until cleared to leave.

It was really too easy to just lift M's card from his belt and sneak out of Medical. Alec and Bond agreed that M was only tempting them by making it that simple.

They weren't, however, expecting ten different types of guns to pop out of the walls and aim themselves at them when they tried to use M's card to enter Q-Branch.

The youngest Quartermaster in history himself opened the door, a pleasant smile on his face. “How can I help you gentlemen today?”

Alec glared at the man – _boy_ , really – and said, “Well, directing the guns away from us would be nice.”

“Ah, I see. Perhaps if you stop pretending to be someone you're not, I'll put away the weapons. It's the twenty-first century, agents, and we have cameras that verify identities now.” Q then began to step away from the door with the intent to close it, and Bond quickly stuck his foot in before Q could close him out.

The younger boy in the cardigan glared at the two men, and Bond grinned. “Come now, Q, don’t make us pull age rank on you.”

“I'm afraid if you did that, I'd have to pull actual rank – seeing as I am Quartermaster, I outrank both of you. And I'd like you to leave my workers alone.” He pointedly nudged the agent's foot out of the way, and shut the door.

A disembodied voice came through the intercom over their heads, “And please return the card to M soon. He might need it.” Q sounded too smug for his own good.

Bond swore he'd get revenge.

 

* * *          * * *          * * *

Four months later, at Baker Street, Sherlock was being no less of a pain than normal. John had just returned from the clinic – after being vomited on twice, having pus fly onto his face, and administering a rather unpleasant prostate exam – it was safe to say that he was not in a good mood.

Then, he came home to find that his roommate, who was also his boyfriend, had burnt his favourite jumper in an experiment, and was attempting to put the small fire out with his second favourite.

After a long monologue from Sherlock about how he shouldn't get so sentimental about things such as _jumpers_ , John was reaching the end of his fuse – and it was only noon.

Then, Sherlock had cancelled their date that they had been planning for a week. John had finally saved up enough money to treat Sherlock to a fancy restaurant, and the man had actually turned the cab around to go to a crime scene.

John was hurt. He had had enough.

“No, Sherlock.”

“What'd you mean, _no?_ ” Sherlock asked, seeming absolutely confused as to why John was upset.

“I mean that I have been looking forward to having dinner with my boyfriend all week, and I won't let it-”

“But _John,_ ” Sherlock whined. “It's a _triple_ homicide. Triple! Surely you must know what that mea-”

“Of course I know what it means, Sherlock, I'm not an idiot – despite what you may think. Now, I am going to go out and enjoy a nice dinner. I'd like for you to join m-”

“No,” Sherlock immediately answered. The idea of missing out on a murder case for a simple _meal_? Preposterous.

John sighed.

Sherlock's voice was almost chiding. “The work comes first, John, you know that.”

“I do, don't I?” John muttered to himself. He really didn't know why he expected anything different.

The cab stopped, and Sherlock was halfway out the door before John had worked off his seat belt.

John paused. Tonight was his night off, damn it, and he wanted to relax after having a terrible day at work. He didn't want to be chasing his mad lover across London. He stayed in the cab.

Sherlock finally noticed that his partner was not by his side, and turned to see John still in the car, looking thoroughly put-out.

“Are you coming?” He asked, wondering what was up with John tonight. He couldn't possibly still be upset about the dinner could he? Not when there was a double murder-suicide baffling the police. Obviously they needed him, as they thought it was a triple homicide.

Idiots.

John shook his head, “Erm, no, Sherlock. You go ahead. I'm not really in the mood tonight.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue that John was always in the mood for action, but Lestrade called for him before he could.

“Alright, then.” Sherlock strode off.

“Where to, sir?” The cabbie asked. “Do you still want to go to the restaurant?”

John felt the reservation tickets in his pocket, and wondered who he could invite to split a dinner with him. The first person that came to mind brought a smile to his face.

It had been a long time since he had caught up with his old friend James, hadn't it?

“Actually no, I've got a new address for you.”

 

* * *          * * *          * * *

James Bond was having a great day.

He had just gotten back from the shooting range, and had successfully avoided reporting to Medical after his assignment in Belize. He had bet Alec fifty quid that he could get the mission done in under three weeks, and had arrived home in the nick of time to collect his money.

He still had to return his equipment – or what was left of it – back to his Quartermaster. Bond felt his heart pick up when he thought of Q.

The young man was the only person in the world that had held Bond's attention for more than a few weeks. Bond wasn't quite sure what it was about the Quartermaster that he liked, all he knew was that he _did_. The man was certainly attractive enough to capture Bond's eyes, with his unruly dark hair and brown eyes that were useless without his glasses.

The boy was only about three centimeters shorter than Bond, but was in desperate need of adding a few kilograms to his small frame. Maybe it was the way he flushed and squirmed at Bond's attention that made the older man feel a sort of protectiveness towards him. Or was it possessiveness? Bond wasn't quite sure.

Bond had just put his rifle back into his locker when his phone rang. Hardly anyone ever actually called Bond anymore, as most the people he talked to worked in the same building, and when he was in the field, he always had an earpiece.

The caller ID read: _John Watson_.

“Good God,” Bond breathed. He had almost forgotten about John!

With a grin, he answered the call, “Do my eyes deceive me, or is the man that I owe my life to actually calling me?”

Bond felt his body automatically relax when he heard the familiar laughter from the other side of the line. “You do owe me your life, you lug, and I can never forget it because I owe you mine as well.” John paused as Bond chuckled. “Is now a good time, or are you up to your neck in blood and bullets?”

John was one of the few people alive outside of MI6 to know about Bond's actual job. Bond had forgotten how soothing it was to talk to someone not related to his work. “Now is a great time, actually. I've just gotten back, and have a few days off before my next assignment.”

“Perfect.” John seemed relieved. “Well my date just cancelled on me, and I just happen to have two non-refundable reservations to _La Fontaine de Jouvence_. I believe I promised you a dinner if you lived while you were bleeding out in my arms.” He paused. “Or was it me bleeding? I can't exactly remember.”

James let out a whistle. “Only an idiot would pass up a chance to eat at that place.” He heard John let out a bitter laugh, and winced at his mistake. The man had just gotten stood-up, after all. “And as to who was bleeding, I think we both contributed there.”

John chuckled. “You're just lucky that I'm a doctor and knew what the hell I was doing. You always were too stubborn to die, weren't you James?”

Bond laughed loudly, ignoring the curious looks from the others in the shooting range. “You don't know the half of it. I'd love to tell you the rest over dinner, John. What time is the reservation for?”

There was a shuffling on the other line, then John said, “Not 'till seven, actually.”

Bond grinned. “Well, we don’t want that time to go to waste, do we? Why don't you come over here and reclaim your title as a crack shot. Or are you too out of practice?”

“You'd be surprised,” John said. James was really looking forward to the story behind that. “But, won't people notice if a civilian just walks into MI6? You must have some sort of security cameras?”

“You're hardly a civilian, Captain,” James snorted at the thought. “But don't worry, I happen to know a guy who's _very_ skilled with technology.”

 

* * *          * * *          * * *

It had been six months since Sherrinford Quentin Holmes had been promoted to the Quartermaster's position, five since the old M died at Skyfall, and four since agents James Bond and Alec Trevelyan had made it their personal mission to break into the Q-Branch as often as they could and terrify his minions.

It was a genuine coincidence that the Quartermaster's nickname was 'Q', as that was what everyone – except for Mycroft, damn him – had been calling Quentin since he was eight.

The 'alert' window on his computer flashed, and Q swore. He quickly pulled up the video feed to the hallway that the intruder was in, and nearly snarled when he saw that it was Bond.

_Well, at least he doesn't have his partner in crime today._ Q thought bitterly.

Q hated to say that, like most people of MI6, he had developed a small crush on the blue-eyed agent. Bond would often sneak into Q-Branch (although it didn't exactly count as sneaking when Q knew he was coming) and terrorise the minions. Then, once the agent knew he was caught, he'd stride confidently up to Q and flirt like his life depended on it.

Thankfully, Q had grown out of his blushing and stuttering phase, but that didn't mean that he wasn't affected by the older man's advances. After Bond had made Q forget about why he was angry in the first place, he'd strut out of the room leaving a significantly flustered Quartermaster behind.

This time, however, Q was not in the mood to be toyed with. He had finally thought that he had gotten over his little crush during the three weeks Bond had been gone for an assignment in Belize, but seeing the man walking confidently down a hallway while trying to break into Q-Branch still made Q's stomach flutter.

And damned if he was going to let Bond get the upper-hand on him again.

So, when 007 finally found his way past the techies cowering in their chairs and into Q's office, the younger man simply said, “Just drop the equipment on the desk, Agent. I'm not sure how much of it will actually be salvageable, but I'll do my best.” He pointedly did not look up from the small project in front of him.

Q heard Bond gently set the ruined tech on his desk, but was surprised when the man did not immediately leave. Instead, he came to stand in front of Q, waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

_Well._ This was very much unlike Bond indeed.

Q finally looked up at the handsome agent, his face suspicious. “Can I help you, 007?”

“Come now, boffin, aren't we past the formalities? I'll even let you call me James if you're good.”

Q felt his neck flush at the nickname, and glared at the blond man. “Bond,” he stressed, “Why are you here?”

Bond, Q noticed, actually looked... _embarrassed?_ Interested, Q took his hands off of the tangle of wires in front of him and gave Bond his full attention.

Bond cleared his throat awkwardly, and Q was intrigued.

“Erm, well, I actually need a small favour,” He admitted.

Q's eyebrows shot up until they were almost hidden by his hair. “And you think of all the people willing to do you a favour, _I_ am on that list?”

Q delighted to see Bond blush. He desperately wished that he had a camera.

“Well, no, but -” Bond cut himself off, and scratched the back of his neck. Q had a distinct feeling that this conversation was not going how Bond was expecting it to.

Q couldn't hide his grin. “What do I get in return, Bond, if I do this for you?”

Bond bit his lip – an action that immediately distracted Q – and said, “I'll bring back one item completely unharmed from every mission for the next three months.”

Q's eyes widened. _Just how much did Bond want this favour?_

“Don't make promises you can't keep, agent,” Q said.

Bond shifted from foot to foot. John was going to be here in under ten minutes, and Bond would hate to see the man get arrested for trying to break into MI6. “I'll _try my hardest_ to bring back the equipment unscathed.” He paused, before taking a shot in the dark, “And I'll take you out on a date this weekend.”

Q jolted in his chair, his head snapping up to look at the blue-eyed man. The agent appeared slightly nervous, but otherwise seemed genuine.

“And what makes you so sure I'd want to go on a date with you, 007?”

An audible growl came from Bond's throat, and the man stalked toward him, his previous nervousness gone. This was Bond in his element now, a hunter, and Q was his prey.

Q let out a rather feminine squeal, and tried to bolt, but a strong arm wrapped itself around his waist and hauled him off his feet.

Teeth nipped at his ear, “You're treading on thin ice, Quartermaster.” Bond's voice was warm on the side of his neck, and Q felt his eyes flutter.

Q still found it in him to tease, “Am I?”

The man began to suckle a mark into his Quartermaster's neck, and Q's mouth fell open in a silent moan. “You want this every bit as much as I do, Q, which is admittedly quite a lot.” Bond nipped at the sensitive skin under the mark he had just made, and Q felt himself gasp.

Q found the willpower to speak, albeit shakily, “I'll do it, on one condition.”

“Anything,” Bond whispered.

Q grinned. “Apologise to Sarah. She's the best minion I've got, and you and Alec made her cry the other day.”

Bond froze what he was doing. “Apologise?” His voice was incredulous. “Me?”

Q simply held his ground, his arms crossed. It was a little hard to take the young man seriously with the love bite on his neck and rumpled hair, but knew that Q would not relent.

“Fine,” Bond snarled, and strode out of the Quartermaster's office – half mast and all.

 

* * *          * * *          * * *

Mycroft Holmes worried about his two younger brothers – constantly.

He had eyes on his siblings at all times, although admittedly it was much easier to spy on Sherlock than Quentin. His youngest brother had a nasty habit of using a small hand-held device to disrupt the CCTV signals – a device which Mycroft had paid heavily for in obtaining one for his own use.

It was no secret that all of the Holmes boys were geniuses, however Sherlock got most of the attention because of the press. Just as well, Mycroft preferred to be behind the curtain pulling the strings, and Quentin basically had to erase his former identity to keep his family safe.

Still, Mycroft did his best to protect his younger brothers when he could, and that immunity also stretched to their partners. As Q was currently unattached, this meant that John Watson had become one of Mycroft's top priorities.

Even if Sherlock didn't show it, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock cared deeply for the army doctor, and Mycroft lived to keep his brothers safe. So, it was only natural that Mycroft had John under constant supervision. He received status reports of the doctors whereabouts every hour or so, and always got text alerts when the good doctor went anywhere or did anything out of the ordinary.

Overkill, some might say, but none of the Holmes brothers ever did anything halfway.

His cellphone vibrated in his pocket, a small buzz, and then three longer ones – Morse for J.

Routinely, Mycroft extracted his phone from where it was in his pocket, and glanced at the screen.

 

> _13:14 UTC  
>  Status Report of Dr. John H. Watson  
>  In transit to crime scene with Sherlock Holmes._

  
Placing the thought in the back of his mind, Mycroft continued to read the paper and sip at his tea.

Only a few minutes later did the phone vibrate a 'J' again, and Mycroft looked at his phone with more interest.

 

> _13:18 UTC_  
>  Update on Status Report of Dr. John H. Watson  
>  Sherlock Holmes presently at crime scene of possible triple homicide  
>  JW currently in cab leaving scene 

  
Well, that was all fine. The doctor must have been tired after such a stressful day at work – which Mycroft would never admit to knowing about – and had simply opted out of seeing a crime scene tonight. Idly, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would make it home in time for his date with the doctor.

Then, only two minutes later, another alert sounded.

“My my, doctor, aren't we busy today?” Mycroft said, his voice ever-so-slightly surprised.

 

> _13:20 UTC  
>  Update on Status Report of Dr. John H. Watson  
>  JW making phone call to (number withheld)_

  
Well, that couldn't be right. Mycroft practically _was_ the British government, how could a simple phone number be withheld from him? His clearance was higher than, well, everything.

Suspicious indeed, Doctor.

He quickly phoned for Anthea – or whichever name she was going by these days. The woman strode into the room, her eyes never once lifting from her phone. “Yes sir?”

“Get me live footage of Dr. Watson,” he demanded, and his assistant nodded, typing something on her phone for a few seconds before the CCTV image of one Dr. Watson sitting at an outdoor cafe popped up on the big screen.

The doctor did indeed have his phone up to his ear, and seemed to be talking quite animatedly to whoever was on the other end of the line.

“I want the audio to this phone call,” Mycroft stated, and waited for the affirmation. When it never came, he looked away from the television screen and towards his PA. The woman had an uncharacteristic frown on her face, and her fingers actually stumbled over her keypad.

“I... I can't, sir.” She said, frowning. “The number he is calling is completely secure.” He had hired _Anthea_ because she was one of the best at what she did – which was getting information quickly.

Mycroft only knew one person that could efficiently secure a simple phone call, and that person happened to be working in the building right across from the cafe where John was sitting.

“Dearest John,” Mycroft muttered, staring at the screen. “What are you up to?”

Finally, the doctor ended his phone call, and seemed content to just sit in his chair, occasionally glancing at the MI6 building.

“Should I have a car pick him up, sir?” His PA asked. She seemed flustered at the fact that she couldn't tap into the phone call, and was trying to make up for it.

“No, let's just watch our doctor for a while, and see what he's up to, shall we?”

John simply sat at the table, sipping at his coffee, seeming as if he were waiting for something. Finally, he got a text at the same time Mycroft did.

 

> _13:31 UTC  
>  Update on Status Report of Dr. John H. Watson  
>  JW received text message from (number withheld): (message withheld)_

  
Mycroft watched in rapt attention as the seemingly ordinary doctor rose from his seat at the small cafe and began to make his way across the street to MI6. Mycroft lost him many times in the crowd, the man moving so stealthily and fluidly that if Mycroft weren't paying as much attention as he was, he probably wouldn't have seen the man at all.

Instead of walking to the front entrance, John slipped down a side alley – an alley in which the CCTV cameras decided to fail as soon as the doctor entered.

Mycroft snarled, “Get me eyes on him, now.”

Anthea fumbled for a second, before footage from another camera was pulled up. This vantage point was from much farther away, but Mycroft watched silently as John glided up to an emergency exit and knocked twice.

The door was opened from the inside, but no alarms went off. John and the man that opened the door grinned, and John was quickly ushered inside.

_Well, this was an interesting turn of events._ Mycroft thought.

Perhaps it was time to give the youngest Holmes a call?

 

* * *          * * *          * * *

John and James smiled at each other for a solid five minutes as they walked down the deserted hallways.

“You do realise you just helped me break into a government facility, right?” John asked.

James shrugged, seemingly unperturbed. “I had help – he wants to meet you by the way.”

“Who exactly?”

James gave John a wolfish grin. “My Quartermaster, and now, thanks to you, my date this weekend.”

“Thanks to me?” John asked.

“I had to sell myself out in order do sneak you in here. I hope you're happy,” James teased.

“Stooping to prostitution, 007? Do lovers not fall willingly at your feet anymore?” John sighed, as if disappointed. “It's the wrinkles, isn't it?”

“You don't have much room to talk, _Three Continents Watson_. You're just as old as I am.”

John elbowed James in the ribs, a shot quick enough that the agent didn't have time to deflect. James retaliated with a pop to the back of the short doctor's head, and laughed at his cry of protest.

John had missed this, being able to share banter with a person without his intelligence being insulted every five seconds. Thinking of Sherlock made his stomach clench, and he pushed the feeling back.

Finally, James gave a hand signal for John to be silent, and John immediately went into combat mode, eyes flickering around for any signs of danger. When there appeared to be none, John looked at James quizzically, only to find the man grinning at him.

“I wanted to see if you still had it.” John glared. “Besides, this is how I sneak into Q-Branch.”

“Can't you just use the door like a normal person?”

James snorted, “How long have you known me?” John only nodded in acceptance, and silently followed James as he moved down the hallway.

“And you said this is how you _sneak_ in?” John clarified, his voice dubious.

James paused to look back at the army man, and said, “Yes. Q is always surprised when I show up.”

“I doubt that,” John said simply, and gestured towards the small camera hidden in one of the lights. “Honestly, James, you're a Double-O. How could you _not_ have noticed that?”

John was more happy than he should have been to see James freeze up, staring at the camera with a slack jaw. James had used this route in a thousand times, and had never noticed that he was being watched. He had thought himself so clever!

James snarled, the sound low and terrifying. John had thought he heard James muttering about 'childish boffins' under his breath, but he couldn't be sure.

James tore down the hallway and entered Q-Branch loudly, the doctor by his side. James ignored the minions in favor of storming into Q's office. “Q!” He yelled.

John finally caught up to see James glaring at a man – more like a boy – with unruly brown hair and thick glasses. The boy was handsome, but looked so much like Sherlock that it was uncanny.

“Hello, 007.” The boy said, a pleased smile on his lips. “Is this your old friend?”

James ignored his question, and hissed, “I've been using that hallway for months, Q, and you've known this _whole_ time?”

The boy just shrugged. “It was fun to watch you.” John snickered, drawing Q's attention back to him. “And you must be Captain John. It's a pleasure to meet the man I just broke the law for.”

James was still seething. “I swear to-”

The sound of a phone ringing made everyone pause, and Q fished his mobile out of the pocket of his cardigan. The boy frowned. “What could he possibly want?” Q looked up at the two men in the room apologetically, and answered his phone, “Brother dear, have you decided to start a war without me?”

There was a pause in which James and John looked at each other and shrugged, neither of them quite knowing what was happening.

Q frowned, “A security breach?” His gaze flickered to John, but he still said, “Impossible.” The voice at the other end of the line began to argue, but Q cut him off, “And _please_ tell me you aren't trying to keep tabs on me again. You know what happened last time.”

The voice seemed impatient.

“Mycroft, really. I'm afraid I don't even know a Dr. Watson-”

Both MI6 workers instantly noticed when John's face instantly drained of all colour, and looked at him curiously. He simply held his hand out for the phone, his face grim.

Q reluctantly handed over his phone over to the newcomer, who seemed to know what he was doing.

John brought the phone to his ear, and sure enough, Mycroft Holmes' voice was ranting on the other end of the line. “Listen closely, Mycroft, because I'm only going to sat this once. _Leave me alone._ Who I spend my time with is none of your business.”

Mycroft started to speak, but John kept going, “If I even get a hint that you're watching me, Sherlock and I will break into your fancy office in that bloody club that you like so much, and _shag_ on every possible surface. Have a nice day.”

John hung up the phone, and looked up to see both James and Q staring at him, quite baffled. “So,” he said awkwardly, “You're a Holmes then. I mean, there are _three_ of you?”

Q nodded slowly, glancing at Bond. “I'm a Holmes,” he said nervously. How did this man know Mycroft, and why did he threaten to shag Sherlock? Just _who_ did he let into MI6?

Q kept a polite facade, “And you are?”

John barked out a laugh. “John Watson. I'm Sherlock's b-”

“Oh my god,” Q breathed, cutting him off. “Captain John. _Dr. Watson._ I should have known.” Of course! How did he not see it before? He knew that Sherlock was in a relationship with his flatmate, but didn't realise that _John Watson_ was also a captain and a doctor.

James cleared his throat. “Can anyone tell me what the _hell_ is going on?”

Q gestured to John, and said, “This is John Watson, who is currently dating my brother Sherlock. John was being kept under surveillance by my eldest brother Mycroft, who saw him come into MI6.”

James nodded slowly. “Right. My turn. This is John Watson, who saved my life a few years back when we were partnered up for an assignment. John was in the army while I was in the navy, but we were the only people available at the time with the right 'qualifications'.” James paused, before adding, “He's a crack shot.”

John rubbed his forehead. “Oh God, there's three of you.”

“I'm probably the most tame of the Holmes siblings,” Q said, unhelpfully.

“You just let a random person into a secure government building,” John pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn't be so sure.”

Finally, Bond's brain caught up. “Wait, Sherlock Holmes? The detective with the hat? _He's_ your brother?”

Q groaned. “Yes.”

“Then who's Mycroft?”

Q and John answered simultaneously, “The most dangerous man you will ever meet.”

“Christ, I need a drink,” John muttered. “Can we go to the range, James? I really need to shoot something right about now.”

James nodded, still slightly confused. He planned to have John tell him everything over dinner, but for now he could let the man just fire away.

The two blond men began to walk to the door, until John paused and turned suddenly. “Sorry, just one question?”

Q nodded.

“Do you know that the Earth goes 'round the Sun?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if anyone wants to take a fill and turn it into a fully-fleshed story, just send me a head's up and I'll put a link to your story at the end of the chapter :)
> 
> Leave a prompt in the comments if you want more. Each fill will be around 5,000 words.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand, here’s the sequel to Chapter One, If an Agent Asks for a Favour…

James reloaded the .22, smiling. “This Sherlock bloke of yours, he sounds insane.”

John laughed from his place a lane over in the shooting range. “He is,” he admitted, “but it keeps me on my toes. At least I'm never bored.”

“And what is it that he does again? He’s some kind of private detective?”

“A consulting detective,” John corrected. “Never call him a private detective in his presence.”

James chuckled. “And the two of you solve crimes together?” John nodded. “Sounds a bit grim.”

John rolled his eyes. “I'm sorry, what do _you_ do for a living again?”

James laughed, “Fair enough.” He glanced over to John’s target, and whistled. “Still a crack shot, I see. I don’t know how you do it.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” John laughed. “Now, tell me about this Q fellow.”

James smirked. “That’s classified information, you know.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

He laughed, “I guess not. Q is more of his code name, I suppose. It stands for Quartermaster. He’s the head of the TSS here. Bloody genius, that’s what he is. Chances are he’s probably listening in right now.” James smiled and waved to the camera in the corner.

John’s brows rose. “And he’s how old?”

“He’s not as young as you might believe. Besides, I said nearly the same thing when we first met, and you know what he said?”

“Hm?”

James quoted, “‘Age is no guarantee of efficiency.’”

John laughed. “Bugger threw your age back in your face!”

“Oi! I'm not that much older than you, you arse.”

“Hey, remind me again what the mandatory retirement age is for a Double-O. I thi-” James reached over and slapped him upside the head. “Ouch!”

James sniggered. 

“You think that’s funny?” John asked, setting his gun down. 

James mirrored his actions. “And if I do?” They both stared at one another, sizing the opponent up.

“No balls?” John asked. 

He nodded. “No balls. First to get the other pinned wins?”

“Sounds fair. Come and get me, old man.”

James charged. John took off towards the sparring mats, James hot on his tail. 

A leg kicked out at John’s ankles, and John immediately went into combat mode. _Dodge, punch, block, kick._ He revelled in the feeling of power.

James fought like John remembered – mostly offensive, using his size and strength to his advantage. John fought using his medical knowledge; he remained mainly on the defensive side, except for a few well placed hits that were meant to cause maximum damage.

James growled, “I swear, John, if you go for my kidney or liver one more time, I’ll put a bullet in your other shoulder.”

“If it hurts that badly, then maybe you shouldn’t drink so much,” John panted, and then hissed in pain when James tackled him to the ground. 

They both grappled on the floor for a while, each trying to pin the other.

“You’re still in very good shape,” James managed to get out.

“Thanks.” John swung at James’ temple, but was deflected. “My secret workout is jumping over rooftops in the dead of night.”

“Not bad,” James said. “I rode a motorcycle over the rooftops of the Grand Bazaar.”

John paused, “You what?!”

James used the distraction to get the upper hand, quickly placing the doctor in a headlock.

“Damn you, James.” John hissed, trying to wriggle out.

“Call me old again,” James threatened.

“Alright, alright. I'm sorry. You’re not old, you’re… _vintage._ Now let me up.”

James released John, who winced as he flexed his shoulder. “Just for that, you’re buying dinner.”

* * *

Sherlock felt his phone buzz as he hunched over the bodies. His suspicions were confirmed. 

“Yes, this is obviously a double murder-suicide,” he said to Lestrade.

“How many times do we have to tell you, there’s no gun,” Donovan hissed.

“Well then you’ll have to do a little detective work and _find it_ , won't you?” Sherlock snapped. He turned back to Lestrade, “The husband killed himself. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Anderson scoffed. “Right, I see. So the husband killed his wife and this man, and then shot himself. But, _while_ he was bleeding out, he decided to hide the gun, just to make our lives harder. It makes _perfect_ sense,” he mocked.

Donovan joined in, slapping her forehead. “Oh, of course, why didn’t I think of that?”

Doing his best impression of Sherlock, Anderson looked down his nose at her and said, “Because you’re an idiot.” They laughed.

Sherlock stayed silent, before realising that he was waiting for John to defend him. He frowned as he thought of his partner. Honestly, the man was overreacting. It was only a dinner; they could have hundreds more like it. It wasn’t that important.

He huffed at Anderson and Donovan. “Are you two quite done yet?”

They continued to laugh. Anderson sneered, “Honestly, Sherlock, just give this one up. It’s obviously a triple homicide.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Perhaps, if you simply _did your job_ and observed for once, you’d find that the husband’s wound was clearly self administered. Plus, there’s the obvious fact that he has gunpowder on his hands – rather incriminating, don’t you think?”

They were finally silent. Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “The man in the kitchen was the wife’s lover – you can tell from his shoes. The husband probably came home, caught them together, and shot him in a fit of rage. The wife witnesses and threatens to call the police. By now, the husband was probably panicking – nasty business, isn’t it? Emotions? – and he ended up killing his wife as well.” His mobile vibrated again. “Then, feeling guilty, he kills himself next to her dead body. Domestic. Boring.”

“Okay, but where’s the gun?” Lestrade asked. 

“ _Think,_ Detective Inspector. It isn’t that hard.”

Lestrade floundered. “Uh- I mean, considering where he shot himself, th- the gun would have landed… here,” he gestured to an empty stretch of floor.

“Wrong. He was kneeling when he shot himself – blood on his knees confirms this. So, if he was kneeling, the gun would instead have hit the bed post and slid…” he bent down, reaching under the bed, “here.” He pulled the gun out, smiling triumphantly, but there was no cry of _‘amazing’_ or _‘brilliant’._ He frowned.

Lestrade sighed, “Alright, Sherlock, you’ve proven your point.” He waved Anderson over, “Bag it.” Anderson sulked, while Donovan rolled her eyes. Lestrade’s eyes flickered to his watch. 

“That’s the twenty-second time you’ve checked your watch since we’ve arrived,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s beginning to get annoying.” Lestrade seemed flustered. “You obviously have a date tonight.” Sherlock grimaced, “Though I can’t imagine how anyone can stomach Mycroft long enough to _date_ him.”

“Careful there, Sherlock. I’ll still take a swing at you. Besides, where’s your partner in crime today?”

Sherlock waved his hand, avoiding the question.

“Oh, come on now, where is he?”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock snapped. 

He tried to walk away, but Lestrade caught his arm. “Is he alright?” he asked, worried.

“I'm afraid John’s a bit mad at me at the moment.”

“What happened?”

“It’s just a silly argument. We were meant to go on a date tonight, but I opted to come here instead. He didn’t agree.”

“That was tonight?” Lestrade asked, eyes suddenly wide. Sherlock looked confused. “Sherlock, John’s been planning this date for weeks. He wanted to, well, he’s been saving up for a while to be able to take you out.”

“That’s ridiculous. I could easily pay for both of us.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not the point, Sherlock. _He_ wanted to take _you_ out. Part of that being he’s the one who pays.” He glanced at the time. “The reservation was for seven. If you hurry, you might still have time.”

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed again. “Oh, what is it?” he hissed. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. His brows rose. Mycroft had called twice and texted three times.

>   
> _Message received. 6:35 PM.  
>  From: Queen Mycroft_  
>  You really should keep better tabs on your blogger.

>   
> _Message received. 6:41 PM.  
>  From: Queen Mycroft_  
>  Don’t ignore me, brother dear.

>   
> _Message received. 6:53 PM.  
>  From: Queen Mycroft_  
>  It’s obviously a double murder-suicide. Answer your phone.

Sherlock frowned. The phone rang again in his hand. He answered, “What do you mean, I need to keep better tabs on John? He’s at home.”

Sherlock could hear Mycroft’s smirk. “No, brother dear, I'm afraid-”

Sherlock cut him off. “Then where is he?”

“It seems our John is more interesting than one may have believed.” Sherlock bristled at _‘our John’._ Mycroft continued, “The man just walked through the back door of MI6.”

Sherlock started. “What? That’s insane. Have you tried calling-”

“Yes, Sherlock, that’s the first thing I did.”

“And?”

“And Quentin is apparently in on it as well. Well, either that or John’s taken the entire building hostage. It’s hard to tell,” he said dryly.

“You never were good at jokes, Mycroft, please don’t start now.”

Mycroft ignored his jab. “I wish I could say I knew what they were up to, but your brother has blocked my access to the camera feed.”

Sherlock snorted. “He’s your brother, too.” He ignored Lestrade’s cry of ‘What?!’

“He’s yours when he’s up to something.”

Sherlock smiled. “Quentin is always up to something.”

“Yes, I'm well aw- oh, hello.”

“What is it?”

“It appears that Dr. Watson and an unknown man have exited the building and are driving away.”

“Well, where are they going?”

“Hm, it’s hard to say for certain, but my guess would be out to a restaurant. Dr. Watson does have reservations, after all.”

Sherlock paled, “John wouldn’t do that.” Those were _their_ reservations. John wouldn’t use them with someone else.

“We’ll see. I'm working on the identity of the other man now, but I'm convinced Quentin is slowing down my computers.”

“Very well.” Sherlock hung up.

Lestrade was immediately on him. “You have another brother? And neither you nor Mycroft thought to tell me about him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Technically, he doesn’t exist. Well, he’s made it to where he doesn’t, anyways. Mycroft occasionally tries to rectify this, but Quentin always manages to delete himself again. I, however, have the hard copy of his birth certificate locked away, along with several embarrassing childhood photos.”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to send me to an early grave – you and your brother both.” He muttered, “This much stress can’t possibly be good on the body.”

Sherlock pocketed his mobile and began to make his way out of the house.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Lestrade called. Sherlock turned. “Be sure to pick up some flowers on the way, yeah?”

Confused, Sherlock tilted his head. “You think I’ve done something wrong.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You _have_ done something wrong, you nitwit. Now go,” he shooed Sherlock away.

* * *

James and John sat across from each other in the restaurant, chatting. James glanced around. “Well, this is a rather secluded place, isn’t it?”

John smiled, shaking his head. “This was meant to be a date for my boyfriend and me. Of course I wanted it secluded.”

James laughed. “John, you sly fox.” John kicked him under the table.

The waiter came by, handing them their meals.

“So, why am I your fill in date?” James asked.

“Well, you know how Sherlock and I solve crimes together, right?” James nodded. “I’ve been planning this night for weeks, trying to get everything perfect.” He paused. “It’s the anniversary of the day we met. I doubt he even remembers.”

“Sorry, mate,” James said.

John shook his head sadly. “He saved me, you know.” He sighed. “I came home from Afghanistan – they wouldn’t take me because of my injury, and none of the surgeries here in London would take me cause of my tremor. I don’t blame them. I'm worthless as a soldier and doctor.”

“John-” James started, but John cut him off. 

“And then – by accident, really – Sherlock and I met. An old friend of mine introduced us. He took one look at me, knew my life story, and cured my limp.” He chuckled dryly, “No more than twenty-four hours later, I killed for him.”

James laughed. “Love at first sight.”

John smiled. “For me it was. It took him a little longer to come around, but I eventually got to him.” He shrugged. “Anyways, as I was saying, we were on our way here when he turns the cab around to visit a crime scene. He gets out and practically cancels our date.”

James winced. “Ouch. Why were you leaving so early?”

John pointed to the museum across the street. “We were going to kill time there. This weekend, there’s a poisons exhibit. It’s got bodies and everything. Only comes around once a year.”

“I'm sure he would have loved it.” James smiled, but then turned and looked curiously towards the front of the building.

“What is it?” John asked.

James hummed. “Not sure. I thought I heard shouting.” From their position in the building, it was hard to see the hostess’ station clearly.

John frowned. “Odd. Well, whoever it was must’ve left.” 

They continued to eat, but a hostess soon came back and scurried to their table. “Dr. Watson?” she asked, looking between the two of them.

John raised his hand. “Yes, here.”

“Right,” she seemed flustered. “I'm very sorry to interrupt, but there’s a man in front. He’s demanding to see you. I'm not sur-”

Sure enough, Sherlock rushed into the back of the building, pushing past the other employees trying to hold him back. He scanned the crowd, nodding when he saw John. He rushed over. “John, I require your assistance,” he declared.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John hissed. 

James spoke up. “Wait, _you’re_ Sherlock?” The resemblance between him and Q was uncanny.

Sherlock turned and sneered at him. 

_‘Oh, and they even have the same glare!’_ James thought.

“Yes, and _you_ are? Wait, don’t tell me.” He stepped back, eyes scanning over James.

“Oh, god.” John placed his head in his hands.

Sherlock hummed. “John, are you aware you’re currently on a date with a SIS operative? My, he has a lot of blood on his hands.”

John winced. “Yes, Sherlock, I know who he is. And it’s _not_ a date.”

Sherlock glanced around, taking in the candle lit table and secluded location. “Are you sure? John, my social skills may not be up to par, but this all appears to be a set up for a romantic date.”

John slapped his hand to his forehead. “Because it _was_ meant to be a date, Sherlock, but _with you,_ you git. James is just an old friend.” Sherlock froze. “Did you honestly think I would do that to you?” John huffed.

Sherlock searched for words. “I… but…”

John scoffed. “Besides,” he waved his hand at James. “This one here is trying to get with your brother.”

The detective frowned. “Strange, I thought Mycroft was dating Gary.”

“It’s Greg, and he is. I'm talking about your other brother. You know, the one you never told me about.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes. You, erm, you know about him?”

“I do now, no thanks to you. How could you not think to tell me that you have another brother?”

Sherlock glared. “How could you go on a date with another man when I'm not available?”

John snapped, “It’s not a bloody date! I have been planning this night for weeks, Sherlock. Weeks!” He began to raise his voice, gaining the attention of some other patrons. “And yes, I was – I am – upset that you blew me off for a stupid crime scene. But James is no more than a friend.”

Sherlock began, “John, I-”

“No, Sherlock. I can’t believe you think that I would – _that I could_ – ever cheat on you. You obviously don’t know me as well as I thought you did if you believe I'm capable of something like that.”

John stood, placing his napkin over his half-finished meal. “James, thank you for the target practice and the dinner. I have to go.”

“John-” Sherlock tried, but John held his hand up.

James said, “It’s been a great evening, John. We’ll get in touch soon.”

John nodded, throwing a few notes down on the table and making his way out the building. 

Sherlock was right on his tail. “Please, John.”

“Come on, Sherlock, we’re going home.” John’s jaw was tight as he hailed a cab.

Sherlock faltered. “You mean… you’re not… leaving?” he asked timidly. Gathering a bit of courage, he asked, “You’re not leaving me?”

John’s eyes softened slightly. He stepped closer to his boyfriend. “No, sweetheart, I'm not leaving you. We’re having an argument. It’s what couples do. It’s healthy, even.”

Sherlock still looked unsure.

John lifted his hand and cupped the younger man’s face. “Breathe for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He met John’s eyes hesitantly.

“There we are.” John gave a soft smile. “There are those beautiful eyes. Let’s go home.”

Sherlock nodded, and they slid into the back of the cab. 

“221B Baker Street, please.”

* * *

Gregory Lestrade sat at the table set for two, his hands folded awkwardly in his lap. The restaurant that Mycroft had told him to meet him at was admittedly more posh than anything Greg was used to, but he was willing to stick it out if it meant he would get to spend time with his boyfriend.

It didn’t seem like that was going to happen tonight, though. Mycroft was forty-five minutes late to their date.

Greg tapped the table with his fingertips, picking at the basket of breadsticks. He checked his phone again, hoping for any messages. None. He sighed.

A waitress walked up to him, slightly timid. “Sir,” she asked, “is there-”

Lestrade held up his hand. “No, no, he’ll be here. I promise.”

The woman smiled sadly. “Alright, dear.” With one last sad look, she left him.

Greg sat, cheeks burning. He could feel the pitiful stares from the others around him, and hated it.

Five minutes later left him in the same position, and he clenched his jaw angrily.

Another employee, a man this time, approached him. “Sir, I'm very sorry, but we’re going to have to ask for the table.”

Embarrassed, Greg felt his eyes well up slightly. “Right, yes.” He cleared his throat, and blinked the traitor tears away.

“Can I call someone for you?”

Greg waved away their concern. “No, I'm fine.”

He began to walk towards the exit, but a gentle hand caught his elbow. “Sir, I'm afraid we still need you to pay for the wine.”

He sighed, feeling a migraine about to come on. “Yeah, alright. Lead the way.”

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office chair, staring intently at the computer screen. 

A knock sounded at the door.

“Not now,” he snapped.

“Sir,” his PA’s voice called. She sounded slightly nervous. “He’s here.”

Mycroft poured himself another glass of bourbon. “Who?”

“Your-”

The doors slammed open, banging against the walls. Greg strode in, looking furious.

Mycroft suddenly remembered. “The dinner,” he breathed. He felt like smacking himself.

“Yeah,” Greg flashed him a tight smile, hands curling into fists at his side. “Yes, _the dinner._ You forgot about that, didn’t you? Do you know _how_ I know you forgot about the dinner? Because I _didn’t_ forget, and I was there, by myself, for nearly an hour. Waiting for you.”

“Gregory, I apologise, but the Korean-”

“One text. One simple text is all I needed. I would have been upset, yeah. But we could have made it up some other time, and I wouldn’t have been sitting completely alone, _stood up_ by my boyfriend of seven months.”

Mycroft winced. “Gregory.”

“You know, it’s hard to believe that in that brilliant brain of yours, you forgot about a simple dinner.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gregory, as I tried to say, there was a crisis with Korean officials-”

“Are they more important than me?”

Mycroft froze. “What?”

“I said, are they more important than me?” Greg took a deep breath. “Is your job more important than me?”

The ginger stood, quickly crossing the room to stand in front of his partner. “No. No, please don’t think that.”

“I mean, I'm trying, My, I really am. I know how demanding a job can be. And-” his voice broke, and he looked around the room awkwardly. “I'm trying not to be _needy_ or _demanding,_ but damn Myc, a little consideration would be nice. You left me to pay for a two hundred dollar wine!”

Mycroft immediately retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. “Here, I can easily-”

“I don’t want your money! Damn it, Mycroft, I want you. I want your attention. When we set a time and place to meet, I want you to keep to your word.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, eyes cast downward. Finally, he whispered, “I'm sorry, Gregory.”

Greg sighed. He walked over and gathered the taller man in his arms. “What is it with you Holmes boys getting my name wrong?” he whispered into Mycroft’s neck. “It’s not Gavin, or Gerald, or George or Grant or Gretel or _Gandalf,_ or even Gregory. It’s Greg.”

Mycroft paused. “But I like Gregory better.”

“Of course you do.” Greg sniggered, nuzzling into his partner’s collarbone. “Fine, you can call me _Gregory,_ ” he said the name with mock disdain. “But only you. I swear, if your brother calls me Gregory, I’ll deck him. You know I will.”

Mycroft laughed, a sound that Greg wasn’t gifted with often.

He suddenly pulled back, smacking the younger man’s chest. “No, I'm mad at you.”

Mycroft looked bewildered. “I thought I was forgiven.”

“How could you not tell me you have another brother?”

Mycroft blinked. “Quentin?”

“Oh, is that his name? You see, I don’t know these things because you’ve _never told me about him._ ”

“Technically he’s not supposed to exist.”

Greg swore his eye twitched. “Sherlock said the same thing.”

“Yes. You see, Sherrinford works for-”

“Sherrinford?” Greg asked.

“Sherrinford is Quentin’s first name. We began to call him by his middle name after our father passed. Sherrinford was also our father’s name, and it upset our mum to hear it so often.”

“Right. Carry on.”

“I'm not supposed to tell you this.” Mycroft murmured. Greg wrapped his arms around him. “Anyway, he works for the government.” 

“He works for you, then?” Greg teased.

Mycroft chuckled. “He certainly doesn’t see it as such. He runs the technological department of MI6.”

“Christ. Is everyone in your family a bloody genius?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Generally, yes.”

“God.”

There was a pregnant pause, before Greg asked, “Did you know that Sherlock has you in his mobile under ‘Queen Mycroft’?”

“Mmm, yes. He changed it sometime around the Irene Adler case. I can’t imagine why.”

Greg laughed.

* * *

Sherlock was gathered up in John’s arms in the back of the cab, searching for reassurance that John wasn’t going to leave him.

Sherlock spoke into John’s shoulder, “Lestrade said I should have brought you flowers.”

“Did he?” John mused.

He could feel Sherlock nod. “Mm. But I wasn’t sure which kind you would have liked, and the lady at the flower stand was being unnecessarily rude.”

John smiled. “What did you reveal about her personal life that she didn’t want uncovered?”

“Why do you always assume tha-”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

Sherlock sniffed. “Simply that she was a homophobe. As soon as I said that I needed a bouquet for my boyfriend, she tried to shoo me away.”

There was a slight pause. “And?” John finally asked.

“And I may have implied that her prejudice against gay couples stems from her repressed feelings for her husband’s sister.”

John chucked. “Oh, Sherlock.”

The cabbie pulled over to the kerb. “Alright, boys, here we are.”

John smiled at him, passing over the money. “Thank you.”

The old man nodded, eyes twinkling.

Sherlock and John made their way upstairs. Sherlock chuckled flatly. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t know how you manage to put up with me.”

John grabbed the younger man, folding him into his arms. “No, Sherlock, you’ve got it all wrong. I'm constantly worried that _you’ll_ be the one leaving _me._ ”

Sherlock buried his face into John’s cropped hair. John was growing it slightly longer than usual, he noticed absently. “Impossible.”

“I'm so afraid, Sherlock, that you’ll get bored of me one day. That you’ll find someone better, smarter, more interesting.”

The brunet shook his head. “You, John Watson, are daft. You are quite simply the most interesting person I have ever met. By far. I can’t fathom why you’ve chosen me.”

John pulled back. “We’ll just have to remedy that then, won’t we? Come on,” he tugged Sherlock toward the couch. 

Sherlock gracefully sat down, while John climbed into his lap. His brows rose. “John, is this really the time f-”

John smiled, and kissed his forehead. “Shut up.”

Sherlock complied, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“This,” he said, tapping Sherlock’s unruly hair, “is your hair.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, I am awar-”

John placed a finger over the younger man’s lips. “Shush. As I said, this is your hair.” He ran his hands through it. “I love it. It’s dark brown, but a lot of people think it’s black. I know you hate it. I know that you think it’s too out of control and tangled. I know you don’t really like it this long, but-”

“But it looks like absolute shit if I cut it,” Sherlock finished softly, smiling.

John nodded, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock’s hair. “Mmhm, just so.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, and John whispered his lips over them. “These are your eyes. I love them, too. They’re beautiful. Exquisite. They are endless in their depth, and so very expressive. They simply light up when you’ve solved a crime.”

Sherlock murmured, “You should write poetry.”

John ignored him. “This is your nose.” He bopped it playfully. “I love it as well. It’s slightly crooked, from when that arsehole broke it about half a year ago, but we both know I put him in the hospital for that.” He giggled softly, “And your nostrils flare when you’re angry. It’s endearing.”

He moved over and gently bit the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “These are your ears. I love them. They’re the first things to get red when you’re embarrassed. You tug on them when you’re tired, or thinking.”

Finally John kissed Sherlock tenderly on the lips. He spoke against them, “These are your lips, your wonderful lips. I absolutely love these. They’re flawlessly shaped. I know you think they’re too thin, but I think they’re perfect. They slot right into mine. See?” He kissed him again. “You bite your bottom lip when you’re trying to solve a hard case, and I always know when you’re thinking of me, because you lick them _at least_ ten times a minute.”

Sherlock smiled.

John kissed his neck next. “This is your neck. I love it. It’s long, pale, and ticklish, even though you’ll never admit it.”

Sherlock grumbled at that. “It’s too pale. It takes forever for your hickeys to go away. I’ll be wearing my scarf throughout summer at this rate.”

John grinned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of Sherlock’s top. “This is your collarbone. I love it. You think it’s too bony, but I disagree. The best part is that it has a freckle on it right…” he pulled Sherlock’s shirt out of the way, “here. This is my favourite freckle of yours.” He tapped it, before leaning down and kissing it.

Sherlock reached up to pry John off, but John caught his hands in his. He pressed a kiss to each of the palms. “Mm, these are your hands. I love these a great deal. They’ve saved my life countless times.” John played with his fingers. “I love seeing these move when you play me a song on your violin. They’re long and elegant, and one day – hopefully soon – this one in particular will look spectacular with a ring on it.”

Sherlock suddenly looked up at John, eyes wide and shining. “Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

John smiled. “I'm surprised you didn’t figure it out earlier. Why do you think I wanted to take you out tonight?” he asked.

Sherlock smiled. “I’d rather have it this way,” he said. “I don’t want to share this moment with a restaurant full of insignificant plebeians.”

John laughed. “Well then, I'm glad things ended up like this. And just so you’re not worried, yes, I did ask your mum first. She was positively thrilled.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. “You’re so old-fashioned.”

“You love it,” John teased. He reached back and pulled a ring out of his pocket. 

“No box?” Sherlock asked softly, eyes fixated on the ring.

“You would have known immediately had you seen the box. Hiding just the ring was much easier.” The ring was a simple design, just a silver band, not too thick or thin. It was perfect.

Sherlock held his hand out, unable to keep it from shaking. John slid the ring on, thanking the heavens when it fit perfectly. Sherlock pulled John down for a kiss.

When John finally came back up for air, he whispered. “I’ve my old army tags up in my room. I was thinking that maybe you’d like them, so you can have something to slip the ring onto when you’re working.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “that would be perfect.”

“Yeah?” he asked. Sherlock nodded reassuringly. John looked relieved. “Good. Now hush, I'm still not done. This,” he said, resting his hands over Sherlock’s forehead, “is your brain. I love it. It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. It’s what makes you, you. I admire you for your ability to think circles around everyone.” He suddenly turned contemplative. “But, if by some reason you were to wake up tomorrow morning with an absolutely average brain, I would still love you. If you were to get sick, and you’re unable to wipe your own arse, I would still love you.” John leaned forward and whispered, “When we’re old and grey, and you forget how to count to ten, you’ll still be my whole world. No matter what happens, I will love you.”

Sherlock sighed, letting the words rush over him.

“And lastly, here,” John breathed. He placed his hand over Sherlock’s heart. “Here is your heart. I love it a whole lot.” He smiled down at his lover. “I know you sometimes say that you don’t have one, but that’s not true. I’ve seen it. You gave it to me for safe keeping, and I’ll protect it until the day I die. Even after, probably; I’ve always been stubborn.”

Sherlock laughed, but it was watery.

“I love _you,_ Sherlock Holmes. You mean everything to me. You are my love, my life.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered desperately, tears beginning to well. “John, John.”

“I'm here, love,” John said. He rolled over, gathering the taller man into his arms. “I'm here.”

“I love you,” Sherlock shoved his face into the crook of John’s neck. “I love you so much.”

John held Sherlock to him, rubbing his back. “I know, sweetheart. I love you, too.”

They sat there for a while, simply holding each other. Neither could tell how long they were like that; it could have been minutes, or hours.

Finally, John pulled back slightly. Sherlock protested, and snuggled back into him. John smiled. “One thing, though, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I demand to have dinner with your younger brother.”

Sherlock nodded. “M’kay. He’ll set the date – his schedule is much more hectic than ours.”

“Do you have his number? You said he isn’t supposed to exist, so does he even have a mobile?”

“Of course he does; he’s very careful. But he’s probably heard already. He has bugs in our flat, you know. I find most of them, but occasionally leave some in. It’s quicker than trying to get in touch with him.”

“Sherlock!” John cried.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, John. Just don’t say anything incriminating while you’re near the toaster and we’ll be fine.” John got up, going to the kitchen to throw out the toaster. “Also, I recommend not walking past the skull in anything less than your pants.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if anyone wants to take a fill and turn it into a fully-fleshed story, just send me a head's up and I'll put a link to your story at the end of the chapter :)
> 
> Leave a prompt in the comments if you want more. Each fill will be around 5,000 words.


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